


wash it away down the kitchen sink

by philthestone



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: F/M, part of phil's domestic shock and awe campaign, showers that are in fact only showers, what is domestic about showers I have no idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2657288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Right after I get you the re-gen, we're taking a shower."<br/>"Together, right?"<br/>"Don't push your luck, hotshot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	wash it away down the kitchen sink

**Author's Note:**

> I have like three other fics on the go and somehow my brain churned this one out in the matter of hours. I. Have no idea where it came from?  
> I just feel like in a lot of my fics, showers are A Thing for these two, so I decided to actually write an entire fic about it. Excellent use of my time, I know.
> 
> hopefully it's actually in-character and coherent. Title's nicked from one of Irnan's fics (all of which are absolutely IDEAL and you should all go read and cry about like wow writer crushes are a-plenty here), which, shockingly, has absolutely nothing to do with showers or kitchen sinks, but it seemed to fit so well here that I just had to use it. So it was her idea first.
> 
> this is a disclaimer.  
> Reviews are me actually finishing my other fics while being a productive member of society (and the image of Leia and Han getting into an argument about which one of them the bounty hunter should actually take in, because they _would_ )

The funny thing is, the first time it happens, neither of them actually registers what boundaries they’ve crossed until their fingers bump against each other in a simultaneous desperate grab for the soap.

Leia thinks that it’s a sad life when the small dusty inn on the cusp of the slums of Ord Mantell has working hot-water showers when the entire Rebel Alliance cannot afford more than semi-functioning sonics, but that doesn’t mean she appreciates it when Han points it out, muck-covered eyebrow raising as though to bait her. They’re standing side by side in front of the ‘fresher with the inconspicuous satchel lying in a heap on the floor and the stolen datachip clutched more tightly than necessary in Leia’s dirty fingers. Luke is with Chewie, maneuvering the Falcon to the rendezvous point at the other side of the space station, and of _course_ things would work out just badly enough that they’d be stuck in a one-room inn for the night and covered with sewage from top-most hair on head to smallest pinky toe.

She says, as she leans down to tuck the datachip in her satchel, nose high in the air, “well, it’s not like the Flacon’s much better,” (and he opens his mouth and closes it, because the damn water heater broke just the other day). And then turns her attention back to the ‘fresher door, which is hanging on rusty hinges just open enough for them to see the surprisingly clean shower tiles.

A bit of muck streaks down from her hair onto her shoulder. 

In approximately five seconds they’ve both stripped down to their underwear, Alliance Issue and not, sodden clothes in a heap on the floor and Leia’s grappling with the shower knob and not even thinking about the fact that there is a half-naked Han Solo standing three inches behind her because _Mother Love_ the water is sluicing down her shoulders and eating away at the half-crusted sludge and she vaguely registers his groan of relief from behind her, focusing on untwisting her braids and letting them fall tangled and matted (but still braided, because her hair is just – her _hair_ ) under the hothot spray.

They both reach for the small green bar of soap at the same time, and Leia looks up to say “I call dibs” in a very un-princess-like manner when she finally realizes that he’s not wearing his shirt and neither is she and this is possibly the least thought-through decision either of them have ever made.

“Oh,” she says, and he blinks.

“You – uh, you take it first.”

“Are you sure you don’t –”

“’S fine,” he says, and she can see the streaks on his chest where the water is washing the mud away, all the way down to –

She nods, deliberately looking him in the eye, and reaches for the soap.

(Thirteen standard hours later and she’s standing in her hand-washed clothes, rough from the old, only half-washed out soap they used and splaying her hands out in front of her as she tries to sweet-talk a bounty hunter into taking _her_ instead of _him._

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Han as angry as the moment after the bounty hunter is safely stunned on the muddy ground, all six foot two inches of him towering above her and demanding exactly _what in_ hell’s _teeth did you think you were_ doing _woman_ and she feels her hackles rise because hadn’t _he_ been ready to give _himself_ up without argument if only the bastard had let _her_ alone and damn you, Han, don’t you _dare_ think that you’ve got the high-ground here when it comes to making sane decisions.

And she wonders if maybe taking a clothed shower was nothing, as far as thoughtless decisions go, to – 

But then, she’s given _that_ quite a bit of thought.)

***

She doesn’t realize that they’re likely to run out of water until the problem is staring her in the face, just as she didn’t realize with the time it would take them to reach Bespin, realistically, or the dwindling number of ration bars stowed away in the galley’s cabinet.

Of course, if the shower head that controlled the sonics hadn’t been broken, _this_ would not have been an issue. 

He looks at her as though hoping she won’t punch him in the groin for the suggestion he’s about to make, and she realizes that in the four months since their trip to Ord Mantell she’s not thought of _it_ a single time and this suddenly seems like the most natural, obvious thing to do.

“Well, alright,” she says. “Don’t think I’m taking off my top, though.”

His mouth lilts upwards in barely-suppressed amusement. “But you are taking off your pants?”

She sighs and pushes him out of the way, hand pressed roughly against his chest through the fabric of his shirt. 

“Hey, it was a perfectly legitimate question, your worship –”

She thinks briefly, with a hint of pride in her own abilities, that it is a sign of how much she has matured in the past week that she doesn’t snap at him or get flustered, but instead tugs his borrowed shirt over her head and stands in front of him in a standard Alliance issue tank top and underwear and says, (deliberately shoving down the memory of his lips hot on hers and the thought of _what if_ ), 

“Only if you take yours off first, flyboy.”

She takes what is probably a vindictive amount of pleasure in the entire minute he is rendered speechless. It is the second clothed shower she has taken, and this time she does not hesitate to grab the soap first.

(Five days later she steps out of the ‘fresher newly-showered and wet hair all-the-way-down-her-back, and she thinks, as he runs his hands through it almost in awe, that this is the second least-thought-through decision they have made and it is once again the fault of a shower.)

***

She wonders as the hot water dribbles down her hairline and into her eyes and nose and mouth, about this foreign, suffocating, oppressive feeling of dread, seeping in and constricting her throat and making her want to grab Han and Chewie by the scruffs of their necks and run as far away from this place as she can.

The showers are nice, though.

She is about to squirt the scented shampoo into her hand – not the one she usually uses, which in some strange, irrational way only furthers her doubts about the place – when there is the whoosh of the ‘fresher door and the shower curtain is pulled back.

“Ah, sith, Leia, I’m –”

“No, it’s my fault, I didn’t –”

“I shouldn’t’ve –”

“Lock the door,” she finishes lamely, the bottle of shampoo clutched in her slippery fingers.

“Uh,” he says, and she wonders why she’s not blushing, because even though he’s seen her – all of her – before, _this_ is different.

And then she realizes that it’s because _this_ is something that they’ve done before, and _this_ is familiar and normal and obvious and damn it, if he’s going to stand there with the curtain open there’ll be a puddle of water on the ‘fresher floor so she finds herself shrugging and stepping to the side.

“There’s room for two.”

He doesn’t say anything, but steps in and tugs the curtain shut behind him, leaning over to grab the equally foreign-smelling bar of soap in the corner. 

She squirts the shampoo deliberately into her palm and wonders at the fact that they’ll probably fall into bed together in a few hours, despite it all. 

The oppressive feeling in her chest doesn’t go away.

***

He groans with pleasure when she twists the tap on and the too-strong spray of the shower head in the Falcon’s fresher hits them, and she feels something untwist in her chest at the fact that he is _here_ and _standing_ and _alive_ and taking a shower with her standing two inches away, because they’ve done this enough times before for it to be a reference point for the return of some semblance of normality. 

But that doesn’t change the fact that she has to curl her finger around his elbow when his legs decide to give out for a half-second, or the welts on her neck that sting under the heat of the spraying water, or the way his fingers fumble slightly with the bar of soap in a way that she has never ever seen them do before.

_(Can you stand?_

_I – don’t know._ And he’s still staring at where he thinks the collar is choking her neck.

_Fine, alright then, I’ll help you take a shower, and then I’ll take a shower myself, and then I’ll go comm. Luke and Make sure Lando and Chewie are okay –)_

“Here,” she says, and takes the soap from him. “Getting shampoo in your eyes isn’t going to help anything, you know.”

“Very funny,” he says, but she doesn’t miss the fleeting twist of his lips of the way his shoulders slump infinitesimally in defeat, and she feels another wave of hot, slick anger curl in her stomach. 

But she ignores it, and gently raises her hand to his shoulder, fingers slippery with soap suds and feels the sweat and carbonite residue and sand wipe away under her slow movements. There is nothing more she wants to do than to press her lips against his again, to feel him entirely and _know_ that he is there (more than just teasing laughter in her head and fingers ghosting over skin in her dreams), but she also knows that she’s ten minutes from collapsing onto the bed and passing out and he’s probably only five, so she says nothing and lets the water spraying down from above her rinse off the extra soap.

She is about to tell him to sit down on the edge of the tub while she does her own hair to make sure he doesn’t lose his balance when he reaches out and touches her hand, almost unsure (like he’s not entirely sure she’s there).

“Can I wash your hair?”

She swallows, once, thinks about how much she’s missed the steady rumble of his voice and about how _different_ everything suddenly seems, and squirts the shampoo into his open palm. 

***

It’s the third shower she’s taken in the past two days, but she doesn’t care and he doesn’t seem to either, and by this point they’re just wasting time and fooling around and probably using up far more water than entirely necessary but it doesn’t matter because they _won._

She can’t stop smiling, for some reason, and she tips her head back and lets the soap stream out with the water and looks up at him, his own grin just as wide and just as completely and utterly hopeless to suppress.

“Ya know,” he says, and leans against the ‘fresher wall, and Leia thinks briefly that the water is alternating between hot and cold suddenly and _damn it all_ , the Falcon’s heating system must be on the fritz again. “I’ve always wondered about this.”

“This?”

“This – thing. Takin' showers together."

“Mmm.”

“Was than an answer or an agreement?”

“I don’t know?”

“But it’s weird,” he continues, mouth tilting upwards just slightly crooked in a way that suggests he’s going to say something either entirely ridiculous or entirely inappropriate, “’cause we’ve never actually _taken_ a shower together.”

“Huh,” she says, and rolls her bottom lip between her teeth.

“And then you go an' do things like that,” he mutters, and she’s grinning again, because she can.

“Is that a problem?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want to?”

“Dunno,” he says, and pushes the wet hair out of his eyes. “Do you?”

“Personally,” and she says this slowly, as though she’s put a lot of thought into it (she hasn’t), “personally, I think beds are nicer.”

He grins properly this time, lopsided and entirely inappropriate (she knew that tilt of the mouth was no good), and reaches out the grab the shampoo. 

“And yet you’ve taken three showers in the past two days.”

“They were _neccessary_ ,” she says, her voice only slightly whiny. “Have I heard you complaining?”

“Hey, so long as I’m not banned from the activity …” The suggestive trail-off could have been taken seriously by anyone else, but they’ve been doing this long enough to know that “taking a shower” is probably one of the few things in their lives that has always actually meant what it _meant_.

“Were we having a conversation or was that just an aimless bouncing of ideas?”

“Eh,” he says. 

“Five minutes,” she says. “Give me five minutes and then beds are a thing.”

He looks far more amused than put-out. “You’re unusually happy,” he observes.

“Mmm,” she agrees, and stretches her arms out behind her, revels in the feeling of the water hitting her back, watches as he tilts his head to rinse the soap out of his own hair, and feels her grin grow wider.

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT DID YA THINK


End file.
